


He Is Mine

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Glimpses of the Heart [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drabble, Gambling, M/M, Post Mary, Post Reichenbach, Sporting Girls (prostitutes), Victorian Johnlock - Freeform, closeted homosexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 11:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13716681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: John Watson is an exemplary Victorian gentleman--and while he may occasionally indulge in a discreet night at the tables--or a night in a sporting girl's bed-- he has far greater secrets to hide from his friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes.





	He Is Mine

_Forget who I was before. That man bears little resemblance to the creature I am now. Now I am a man of war, loss, secrets, rebirth, chance, excess and a damaged, tarnished honuor that has stood me well._

 

 

 

          Of course he had picked tonight to pluck and dart at me. I’d no sooner stepped through the door than his drawling voice was needling me with his observations and hidden stings. My head was echoing stupidly from the amount of spirits I had consumed, and the gnawing knowledge of how much I’d just lost at the tables would be haunting my wretched sleep tonight. The last thing I needed was for him to try and tease out the loose threads of my dignity.

         

          I do not know why my evenings in the gambling hells bothers him so. I pay my share of the rent, I do not bring creditors or billy boys to our door. The majority of my time is spent in earnest, respectable practice of medicine, and all the remainder of my time is consumed by Holmes and his mania, his companionship, his mysteries and his nonsense. None, I think, would begrudge me one or two nights a month to dive head first into hedonism.

 

          None but he.

 

          Setting down his violin—which he had been shamelessly abusing in a manner directed solely at my admittedly sore-headed temper—Holmes rose fluidly and stalked across the sitting room, his crimson dressing gown, black trousers and white shirt-front creating a dramatic figure. “I smell the smoke of at least seven different tobaccos on you—” a deep sniff, “—you spilt your drink on your coat sleeve, here—” the sharp eyes flicked over me, unsettling me. “I can tell that you dined well, if not rather carelessly, your lack of watch chain indicates that you’ve also gambled carelessly.”

         

          Stalking behind me as if I were a criminal to be reduced to nothing but observations and tells, he leaned in and murmured in my ear, “There is a trace of rouge on your shoulder, but you smell only lightly of perfume.” Presenting himself in front of me with triumph, and glittering eyes, he concluded, “Your sporting companion abandoned you once your losses began to mount, did she not? Dear me, Watson—if you wish for female companionship you ought not to gamble so recklessly.”

 

          A crackle of temper sparked through me—I, a man of honour, a physician, a former soldier, a man who had stood by him regardless of the situation, who had watched my wife and child both die in childbirth, who had devoted my last three years to his comfort and society—he called me reckless. His perspicacity was not so very great if he truly remained unaware of the extreme degree of control and complete and utter lack of reckless behaviour in which I existed. I was on a knife’s edge of longing and disaster and he dared—

 

          “One would think you did not care for the company of women any longer, Doctor.” His beautiful gray eyes were hard as diamonds, brighter than the stars and I could not stand it any longer. No, not for one moment longer.

 

          "Do not tease me, Holmes," I growled, brandy-bright breath fanning his fine featured face. One trembling hand clutched his immaculate shirt-front and twisted it tight as I hauled him close, aware of his body drawn taught as a bowstring. I was far too close and the warning voice that at crucial times of my life had stood me in good stead was screaming harshly. 

 

          I drowned it out with the hot press of my mouth against his, drinking in his shocked gasp, the smoke and whiskey flavor of his tongue, the delicious rasp of his late evening stubble on my cheek. My heart had not beat so wildly nor so fiercely even in the most dire of circumstances, nor upon the occasion of my proposal to my late wife. For just this one moment I cried damned to the future and whatever it may hold outside this one perfect kiss.

 

          It may have been the brandy, or my disordered senses, or the leaping flames of the fire, but I could have sworn he returned my kisses with equal fervor, equal warmth. Those long, thin hands I had so often admired were tangled in my hair, caressing my neck above my shirt-collar. Was it possible that he too had long felt the frustration of denial? 

 

          "Holmes," I groaned, many minutes later, hands cradling his face, as our mouths parted reluctantly in search of much needed oxygen. 

 

          I was devastated, both by the power of the emotions ripping through me, as by the imminent loss I faced. If any man had learned to rise above the concerns of the flesh, to deny basic urges, to sneer at attachment, sentiment, _love_ …it was Sherlock Holmes. My one weak moment would cost me everything I held dear. Surely he was lost to me now as the day his body disappeared beneath the waters of the Falls. 

 

          There was a breathless moment of suspense, and then, in the warmest possible voice, he spoke, "My very dear fellow." I dared to raise my eyes to his and saw his lashes—dark, blunt and as dear to me as any atom of his body—sweep up and those keen, knowing, miraculously observant eyes glowed at me. The softness that kindled in their depths threatened to make my very knees buckle with relief. I was loved! Sherlock Holmes regarded me with the eyes of a man in love! He spoke again, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it—for now I heard it with the ears of a man in love—“My very dear John.”

 

          _Forget who I was before. I am he no longer. Now I am my beloved’s and he is mine._


End file.
